


carry it with no regrets

by AliuIce0814



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning, M/M, POV Sam Wilson, Possibly Unrequited Love, Wakes & Funerals, mid-up all night to get bucky, post-Cap 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 18:59:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2822696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliuIce0814/pseuds/AliuIce0814
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's lost someone he loves before. When Peggy Carter dies, he's there to help Steve get through the week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	carry it with no regrets

**Author's Note:**

> This is Haley's super-sad birthday present. I'M SOMEWHAT APOLOGETIC, BUT YOUR CHRISTMAS PRESENT'S SMUTTY, SO I DON'T FEEL TOO BAD FOR YOU. Happy birthday, my friend. You are super-cool.
> 
> Unbetaed. I went through and revised it, but if you see someplace where I screwed up, please tell me.
> 
> Heed the tags and the summary! Mentions of depression/PTSD/panic attacks.

11:00 PM Sam: Steve?

11:15 PM Sam: Porch light is on. Text me before you come in.

11:29 PM Steve: Not coming home tonight.

11:30 PM Sam: Call/text if you need me. I’m here.

1:34 AM Steve: Peggy died.

1:34 AM Sam: shit

1:35 AM Sam: I am so sorry man. Do you need me to do anything

1:45 AM Steve: I don’t know

1:46 AM Steve: her family was there

1:46 AM Steve: she asked for me though

2:07 AM Steve: Stark’s here

2:09 AM Sam: Why?

2:10 AM Steve: Tasha too. Barton

2:11 AM Steve: woman I don’t recognize. Longer brown hair, wavy, British, late twenties

2:12 AM Steve: SHIELD. Sharon knows her

2:13 AM Sam: What do they want?

2:35 AM Steve: Stark/SHIELD are taking Peggy. Want to do an autopsy. Say hydra might have poisoned her

2:36 AM Sam: What?

2:36 AM Steve: repeatedly, over years, at nursing home, saying there were moles here, just now flushed them out

2:37 AM Steve: not really dementia

2:38 AM Sam: Jesus

2:38 AM Sam: where are you

2:40 AM Steve: by her room. Stark wants me to come but

2:40 AM Steve: why?

2:40 AM Steve: oh

6:07 AM Steve: thanks, Sam

6:15 AM Steve: thank you for showing up

…

            As uncomfortable as their position on the couch is, Sam can’t bring himself to push Steve’s head off of his shoulder. Sam’s pretty sure Steve hasn’t slept at all in the past 24 hours—hell, maybe the past 48, Steve’d been wearing the same clothes all that time. He’s a great soldier and a good friend, but Steve has a bad habit of forgetting to take care of himself. It drives Sam nuts, but he can’t force Steve to change. He’s his friend, not his therapist. All he can do is be there.

Which is why he’s just called the VA to let them know he’s going to use his vacation days this week. Sam leans his head back against the couch and sighs. He barely knew Peggy Carter. He met her once, going to the nursing home to pick up Steve after a visit, but from everything Steve’s told him about her, the frail old lady in the hospital bed was a far cry from the sharp-eyed spy Steve fell in love with. Losing someone you love is always rough. Sam’s not sure how he would have managed if Riley’d lost his memories before he’d died. He’s not sure he could have stood by and watched that happen.

Steve moans in his sleep, a tight sound in the back of his throat. When Sam looks down at him, Steve’s face is pinched. Heat seems to expand in Sam’s chest the way it always does when he looks at Steve. Sometimes, when Steve’s being a recluse and Natasha won’t text for weeks and Riley’s death weighs on Sam so heavily that only the thought of his patients can drag him out of bed, he thinks bitterly that his whole purpose in life is to play second fiddle to people he loves too much. But the pain of it passes. The truth is Sam loves them too much to be bitter. He stares at the lines on Steve’s face and tries to gauge whether he can risk rubbing his back or not. If the dream’s a flashback, the touch might panic Steve. If it’s just a nightmare…Sam shakes his head at himself, thinking it’s just a nightmare. Nothing’s ever just a nightmare with Steve.

            Steve makes another sound, closer to wakefulness, and turns his face against Sam’s shoulder. Sam holds himself very still. He gives himself a minute to feel the warmth of Steve’s breath on his skin before he gently touches Steve’s back. Steve’s muscles are already all bunched up, but he doesn’t flinch, so Sam risks rubbing slow circles on his back. Steve always throws heat, even more than Sam does, and Riley used to give Sam all kinds of shit for being a personal space heater. Sweat soaks through Steve’s shirt now. He’ll feel miserable when he wakes up. Sam hopes a shower will help him instead of just giving him more time to brood. God knows Steve broods enough as it is.

            Steve’s breath hitches. Sam keeps rubbing his back as he fights his way to wakefulness, hands clenching, face pressed against Sam’s skin. When he jolts upright, his hair brushes Sam’s cheek. Sam stops rubbing his back but keeps his hand there, steadying him. “Hey, man.” He doesn’t look at the clock, but he knows from the weak sunlight seeping through the curtains that Steve’s only slept for a couple of hours.

            Steve runs a hand over his face. His hair is sticking up around his cowlick, and his cheek is red where it’s been pressed against Sam’s shoulder. “Time is it?” he says, voice rough with sleep.

            Now Sam looks over at the oven clock. “Oh eight hundred.” Less than two hours of sleep, then. “June 4th, 2014. Monday.”

            Steve nods, eyes closed. It always takes a moment for him to orient himself in the present. Sam has that problem, too, waking up in DC in 2014 instead of Kandahar in 2009. Steve has to make the jump from 1940s Europe to the present. Sam’s not jealous. He keeps his hand on Steve’s damp back. Steve swallows. His eyes snap open. “Is Peggy really dead?”

            Sam takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Yeah,” he says, keeping his voice even. He’s expecting the way Steve flinches. He spreads his fingers out on Steve’s back as if that’ll hold him together.

            Steve digs his fingers into his own thighs. “I should call Sharon, see if she needs help.” His voice shakes. When he looks down at his lap, Sam knows he’s hiding tears. He squeezes his shoulder. Steve looks over at him, biting his lip. Sam nods. He wishes Steve could let go of all his self-destructive loyalty long enough to sleep, long enough to heal, but he can’t force him to do that. The way Sam sees it, he has two choices: step away from Steve and save himself a little pain, or follow him and maybe help him shoulder his impossible burden. Steve’s tried telling him before that this isn’t his cross to bear. Sam looks at Steve’s careworn, sleep-sweet face and thinks there’s no way in hell he could leave Steve to carry his pain alone.

            Sam lets his hand slide from Steve’s shoulder as Steve stands. As soon as Steve’s in his bedroom, talking to Sharon in a low voice, Sam lets his head rest against the back of the couch again. He has to doze a little if he’s going to be any use to Steve.

…

9:07 AM Sam: so who’s the British lady

9:08 AM Sam: the one who isn’t a Carter

9:10 AM Tasha: she’s a friend

9:12 AM Sam: she doing the autopsy?

9:13 AM Tasha: yes

9:16 AM Sam: results before or after the funeral?

9:24 AM Tasha: idk. hows steve holding up

10:45 AM Sam: taking him out for lunch in a bit. Want to come?

10:46 AM Tasha: where? can i bring clint

10:49 AM Sam: that soup place, and sure. No flirting at the lunch table, though

10:50 AM Tasha: ;) :)

…

            Sam probably shouldn’t trust a spy because of how he eats his sandwich, but he sure appreciates the way Clint Barton’s digging in. There’s something about his unassuming style that feels kind of forced, like he’s spent years practicing to be able to pretend not to care what people think. Sam likes that. It reminds him of a lot of the guys he used to fly alongside. Clint keeps chowing down while Steve explains the funeral plans to Tasha. Sam kind of hopes Steve will pick up cues from Clint and eat some of his untouched food. He’s seen Steve drop like a sack of bricks from skipping meals. He doesn’t want a repeat performance.

            Clint swallows the last of his sandwich and tosses his napkin onto his plate. “Hey, Sam. Batman or Superman?”

            “Nightwing,” Sam says immediately.

Clint grins and leans back in his chair. “So that’s why Tasha thought I’d like you.”

            “It’s a bird thing,” Tasha says distractedly. Clint crumples up his napkin and throws it at her face. She bats it away and slaps his hand without looking away from Steve. Steve’s frowning at the salt shaker, shoulders hunched. He’s too locked in his grief to want to joke. Sam knows the feeling, and he empathizes, but at the same time he knows how important it is for Steve to shake himself out of that. The sooner Steve fights the depression that’s lurking around him, the easier it’ll be for him to function. Tasha purses her lips. When she makes eye contact with Sam, he can tell she’s thinking the same thing. “You should tell Clint about the time Fury screwed up the floor numbers.”

            “Oh, God.” Sam still doesn’t think that’s funny, though Tasha finds it hilarious. “See, I get that they don’t put floor numbers on the outside of the building, but there was a Helicarrier crashing through it and I had to jump out a damn window….”

            Turns out Clint thinks Fury messing something up is hysterical. “Oh, man. Coulson would never let him live that one down.” His eyes flicker when he says the name, some of his humor disappearing. Sam keeps his quiet smile on his face, waiting out whatever grief Clint has to fight. Clint shakes his head after a moment and knocks elbows with Natasha. “Tash, did you see Fury’s sunglasses?”

            Tasha rolls her eyes. “Yes. I keep trying to tell him he looks like Stark when he wears them inside, but he won’t listen.”

            The two of them snicker like a couple of kids. Beside Sam, Steve keeps unlocking his phone to check for new texts. His spine’s one straight line, his mouth tight. Sam bumps elbows with him. When Steve looks at him, it’s like his eyes are shuttered. “I should get back.”

            If Sam and Steve were closer and Sam didn’t know what he does about human psychology, he might consider just sitting in the booth, blocking Steve in. Instead, he grabs his ticket and stands, waiting for Steve to follow. He’ll ask for a doggy bag to take all of their leftovers home. If he leaves food in the fridge, Steve’ll eat it eventually. His guilt never allows him to waste.

            Sam wishes there was a technique that worked better than guilting Steve Rogers.

…

9:14 PM Sharon: is Steve okay? He’s not answering his phone.

9:16 PM Sam: he’s fine, I finally got him to eat

9:20 PM Sharon: Good. I was worried. Would you please tell him that we’re choosing photos for the slideshow? I don’t know if he has any, but it would be nice to have some of Aunt Peggy during the war.

9:24 PM Sam: letting him eat first. Then I’ll ask.

9:26 PM Sharon: Sure. Thank you for taking care of him.

9:30 PM Sam: we’re going to look through pictures now

9:33 PM Sam: of course I watch his back, that’s what a wingman does

…

            It turns out Steve does have photos from the war. “Fury gave them to me,” he says as he drags a plastic box out from under his bed. “Peggy saved them.”

            Her name hangs heavy between them. Sam sits by Steve and watches as he carefully pulls out book after book of photographs. Sam opens one and finds a light-haired woman gazing back with the wide, serious eyes people in old photos always have. Her clothes are shabby, and her eyes look a little sunken, but there’s something familiar in the proud way she sits. Sam looks between her and Steve for so long that Steve notices. He stares at the picture, jaw tight, for a long moment. “That’s Mom,” he says finally, voice strained. “I didn’t even know there were any pictures of her.”

            Sam can see Steve in his mother’s sharp eyes and furrowed brow now that he knows for sure who she is. “She looks nice,” he says. “You look like her.”

            Steve nods. “Dad’s hair was darker,” he says quietly. “We used to have a picture of him. I don’t know what happened to it.”

            “Well, we can look.” Sam offers Steve a smile. He isn’t surprised when Steve doesn’t smile back. Sam turns the page in the photo album and sees a face that’s been haunting him for months. Though this kid can hardly be more than twelve, his cocky smirk and dimpled chin scream Bucky Barnes. Sure enough, Steve tenses, hands clenching and relaxing. Kid Bucky has an arm slung around a tiny boy’s shoulders. If Sam didn’t spend just about every waking hour with Steve, he wouldn’t recognize him in the stick of a kid who doesn’t even come up to Bucky’s shoulder. Sam frowns at the braces on Steve’s legs. “You had polio?”

            “No. My muscles were just weak.”

            Sam lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Good.” His dad has post-polio syndrome, and man, he would not wish that pain on anyone. He doesn’t think about the Steve of the past a lot unless Steve brings up the past. He spends so much of his time running laps around Sam that Sam’s sort of forgotten Steve was ever small or sickly. He gets this sudden irrational spike of worry when he looks at kid Steve’s spindly legs. He wonders if this is how Bucky felt about Steve all the time.

            “Looks like this book’s all old photos,” Steve says, taking the album from Sam and closing it. Sam resists the urge to point out that all of these pictures are going to be at least seventy years old. When Steve opens the second album, his shoulders slump a little. “Here we go.”

The photo’s colorized, giving the glamorous woman on the page the red-tinted hair and dark lipstick she must have had when she and Steve were both young. Sam knows from Steve’s stories how Peggy’s no-nonsense attitude and sharp mind made him fall in love with her. Now, seeing her as Steve remembers her, Sam can imagine them together, loyal and gorgeous. His chest briefly aches with jealousy, but he breathes evenly until that emotion’s faded. He doesn’t need to be jealous of how Steve loves Peggy. What they had was good, and now Steve’s staring at the face of someone he’ll never talk to again. Sam knows that feeling all too well.

            Steve reaches to take the picture out of the album but stops, fingers resting against Peggy’s cheek. Sam edges closer, offering support without touching. It’s Steve who leans against him, shoulder to shoulder. When his breath starts hitching, Sam makes sure to keep his own breathing even. They sort through the rest of the pictures like that, warmth from Steve bleeding into Sam. Sam stares at beautiful, brave, _gone_ Peggy Carter and feels his own grief gnaw at him a little more.

…

10:45 AM Unknown Number: autopsy results in, call the other bird for info

10:46 AM Sam: who’s this

10:47 AM Unknown Number: This is TS, crazy red-head gave me your #

10:48 AM Unknown Number: ABC CBS NBC CNN Fox all going for interview w/ Spangles re the funeral

10:49 AM Unknown Number: from experience would recommend 0 of them

10:49 AM Unknown Number: not v understanding of funeral-related trauma

10:51 AM Unknown Number: anyway i can cover most of those if starry eyes picks up an interview w/ npr at some pt

10:52 AM Unknown Number: it’s radio he could stay in his pjs

10:55 AM Unknown Number: just say nice things about carter, blah blah blah they were in love they were in a war they’ll eat it up

11:34 AM Sam: He’ll do it, but he says to text him instead of me next time.

11:35 AM Unknown Number: texting you guaranteed me an answer. he’s too good at ignoring me

…

            “They poisoned her mind,” Steve says abruptly. Sam’s halfway through cooking scrambled eggs, and though he’s a grown man who’s lived on his own for the past fifteen years, cooking still takes most of his concentration. He keeps his eyes on the eggs until he’s got them on plates and the stove turned off. When he turns to hand Steve a plate, Steve’s picking at the kitchen counter. Sam sets the plate in front of him and leans against the counter, waiting. He knows if he’s quiet long enough, Steve will finish his thought. Sure enough, he says lowly, “All that time, everyone just assumed she was old and senile, but they were poisoning her. She didn’t even know. She just thought she was losing it.”

            Sam nods. He’s thought about that a lot over the past couple of days. Sometimes, thoughts of the Winter Soldier slip in, too. Two of Steve’s closest friends, torn from their memories. Peggy’s gone now, beyond anybody’s chance to save her. Sam knows more than he knows anything else that as soon as Steve gets his breath back after the funeral, he’ll be after Bucky with a single-minded determination Sam’s been working so hard to get him out of. Sam’ll have no choice but to follow and hope Bucky’s okay with Steve not giving him space to heal anymore.

            “All those times I sat there.” Steve’s voice cracks. “All those times I sat there, and she didn’t know me, and I didn’t do anything. Half of those nurses were HYDRA. I saw them give her medicine.”

            “No, Steve,” Sam says, talking right over him. “Stop.” Steve shuts his mouth, but he scowls at Sam, jaw tight. Sam squares his shoulders and scowls right back. “You know I’m here for you, man. I get grieving, I get that you’re in pain, but you do not get to lay this on yourself. There’s nothing more you can do. They caught the people who did it.”

            “Not soon enough.”

            “No. Not soon enough. People die, Steve. Sometimes there’s nothing you can do to stop that.” Sam thinks of reaching for Riley as he spiraled down to earth, of getting that phone call at 2 AM saying Mom had a heart attack and he needed to come home now. Steve leans forward, fists clenched. Sam shakes his head. “Don’t get mad at me. You know it’s the truth.”

            “Peggy’s dead.”

            “I know.” Sam’s voice comes out sharper than he means. Steve sits back, breathing hard. Sam makes himself take a deep breath to steady himself. Even after that, he’s still buzzing with frustration. “I’ve been here for months, man, I’ve been watching you. I know what you went through with her, and I’m sorry. I wish I could fix this for you, but I know I can’t. I’m not God. I’m not even your therapist. I’m your friend.”

            Steve looks down at the counter. The lines on his forehead deepen even as he smiles weakly. “You’re a good friend. I mean it.” He looks up quickly, like he’s worried Sam won’t believe him. Sam can feel his shoulders relax the second he’s the object of Steve’s sad smile. “You don’t have to do any of this for me.” Steve nods toward the eggs, which are probably cold by now. “What you did on the Helicarriers was more than enough.”

            “But see, I want to do it.” I want to do more, Sam thinks. He keeps that thought to himself, but he wouldn’t be surprised if Steve could see it in his eyes.

            Steve watches him for a long minute. Sam keeps his gaze steady even though it’s hard to do with Steve studying him so closely. The warm, too-big affection in his chest makes it a little hard to breathe. “Thank you,” Steve says finally. He picks up his fork and eats. If he notices when Sam passes him the second plate of eggs, too, he doesn’t say anything.

…

2:30 PM Sharon: Are you coming to the visitation?

2:38 PM Sam: Probably not. Steve just got through talking with NPR. Was going to try to get him to sleep. He’s wiped

2:43 PM Sam: He’ll feel bad about missing it though. I’ll ask him

2:44 PM Sharon: don’t

2:47 PM Sharon: The visitation’s mostly family anyway. We’ll need him more at the funeral.

2:54 PM Sharon: Tell him I said to get some rest.

3:01 PM Sam: Sure thing. See you tomorrow

…

            Tony Stark’s more than a little irritating, but he’s got a pretty good habit of swooping in and taking care of people’s material needs. He’s the one who replaced Sam’s wings free of charge, upgrade and everything, within a week of the Helicarrier showdown. The day of the funeral, a FedEx truck pulls up in front of Sam and Steve’s place and drops off all kinds of carefully wrapped packages. Sam and Steve open them warily only to find two suits and two uniforms, all carefully washed and pressed. There’s a notecard stuffed in the breast pocket of the smaller suit. Sam pulls it out and squints at the messy scrawl. _Sorry for your loss. Tony & Pepper._

“I should wear my uniform,” Steve says, voice cracking. He clears his throat and brushes his fingers over the olive jacket with all its medals attached. Sam can barely remember his grandpa wearing a dress uniform like that one Veteran’s Day, smartly pressed khakis covering joints that barely moved anymore. Steve’ll look smart dressed up. He’ll look how Peggy would’ve remembered him.

            Sam’s not sure how Stark got ahold of his dress uniform. He hasn’t put it on since Riley’s funeral. He’s not sure he could look at himself in a mirror wearing it. It’d make him think too much about how Riley’s mom begged him to say the eulogy. He refused every time she asked. He’s never turned down someone’s request for him to speak at a funeral again; he talked at his mom’s, at some of the soldiers from the VA’s. But he didn’t speak at Riley’s funeral. He ducked into the church bathroom, locked the door, and hyperventilated his way into his first panic attack instead. He has to take a deep breath now to keep himself steady looking at that uniform.

            “You don’t have to go,” Steve says, trying to read his mind and missing the mark. He’s probably trying to sound resolute, but he just sounds miserable instead.

            Sam shakes his head hard. “Nah, I’m coming with you. It’s just…been a while since I’ve been in uniform.”

            Steve nods. “It’s been a while for me, too.” When he looks at Sam, he’s got that little furrow between his eyes that forms whenever he’s worried about someone. Sam’s throat tightens. It takes all his effort to hold eye contact. Steve presses his shoulder against Sam’s, warm and solid. Sam only gets his breath back when Steve moves away, picking up his uniform and heading for the bathroom to change.

…

**Sam Wilson -- > RIP Riley Carr**

Hey, man. Life’s been kind of rough lately. I sure could use my wingman to back me up.

(12 likes) (2 comments)

…

“The Soldier was here,” Natasha whispers to Sam as soon as he walks through the doors of the Episcopalian church. He stops dead, glancing around the church for a metal arm. Tasha pushes him forward. Luckily Steve hasn’t even noticed he fell behind. He’s up by the casket, wrapping an arm around Sharon Carter’s shoulders. “I’ve already talked to him. He’s gone. He left me a letter for Steve. He’s not an immediate threat.”

            “Why now?” Sam thinks he knows the answer, but after a months of searching and then months of not-searching for Bucky Barnes, he feels a little off-kilter.

            “He says he remembers Peggy.”

            “Those his exact words?”

            “No. His exact words were, ‘I remember Agent Carter. She wouldn’t give me the time of day. Sure had eyes for Steve, though. She had on that pretty red dress and he didn’t even dance with her.’” Tasha says it with a weird intonation that Sam suddenly realizes is a perfect imitation of a Brooklyn accent. He stops walking again just to stare at her. She tilts her head. “That was all he said. He’s not Barnes, but he’s not the Soldier, either.”

            “If he shows back up?” Sam surveys the room. Most of the people in it are older, either World War II vets or people who came out of SHIELD and weren’t HYDRA, but there’s a pack of kids walking along one of the pews like it’s a balance beam. Somebody’s dad comes and scolds them, lifting them down one by one. Sam swallows. “If he’s triggered? I don’t have my wings with me.”

            “Barton’s got eyes on the place.”

            “Just eyes?”

            “And an arrow. Choir loft.”

            Sam knows he shouldn’t turn back and look. He can’t risk giving away Clint’s position. Curiosity’s about to get the best of him anyway when Steve turns around, frowning. Sam plasters on a smile and half-jogs down the aisle to catch up with him. Steve, smart man that he is, doesn’t buy the smile. “What?”

            Sam’s never lied to Steve before, not even to protect him. He can’t bring himself to lie to him now, not when there’s so much trust in Steve’s alert gaze. “Clint’s guarding us.”

            Steve stands up straighter and tilts his head up. “Where—oh, I see him.” Sam squints into the rafters but can’t see anything. He takes Steve’s word for it. “He doesn’t have to do that.”

            Sam shrugs. Sharon’s climbing the steps to the altar. Sam follows Steve into the pew beside the Carter family. He doesn’t feel like he belongs there, but then again, he knows Steve doesn’t feel like he belongs, either. As Sharon adjusts the microphone, Sam murmurs, “Maybe he wants to.”

            Sam’s never been to an Episcopalian funeral. He would’ve assumed they were identical to Catholic funerals, but by Steve’s slight hesitation, he can tell they’re different. A girl with her red hair in braids reads the first Bible passage: “The Lord will swallow up death forever,” she says. Steve tenses a little when he hears her voice. Sam takes in the hair and the British accent and figures this girl, a niece or grandchild, must sound just a little too much like Peggy. Sharon reads the second Bible passage: “Behold, I make all things new.” Sam remembers that Peggy was the one who built SHIELD from the bottom up and thinks yeah, that sounds about right.

            Soon, too soon, Steve’s standing, stepping past Sam to climb the stairs to the altar. Sam shoves his hands into his pockets so no one can see they’re balled into fists. Steve pauses to adjust the microphone. A couple people in the congregation laugh. Steve glances up, startled, and then smiles sheepishly. “I, um.” He takes a deep breath. Sam can hear it rattle through the microphone. Steve’s smile fades. “You’ve probably already heard most of the stories I’d like to tell you about Peggy, whether you heard them from her or someone else. Sharon’s going to get up here in a minute and talk, and I think Molly will too—” The red-headed girl nods. “So I won’t waste your time. I’ll just tell you one story.”

            Steve takes a shivering breath. “After my friend Bucky—fell, I was—we were in London, the Commandos and Peggy and I. Most of the places we’d spent time in were bombed out by then. The pub we liked was gone. Absolutely demolished. There was just the bar and a couple of tables left. So I went in there and I, uh. Had a drink or two.” Steve’s cheeks pink up the way they do when he’s a little ashamed of himself. One of the Carters titters. “Peggy found me there. I was miserable, feeling really sorry for myself, but she set me straight. She told me that Bucky’d known what he was getting into. She said I had to allow him the dignity of his choice because he damn well must’ve thought I was worth it.”

            Steve’s quiet for a long stretch. Sam stares at the closed casket and thinks about Riley’s closed casket, the bizarreness of him being so close and so far away at the same time. ‘Allow him the dignity of his choice,’ he can hear Peggy Carter saying even though he only heard her voice once. All at once, he gets why Steve loves her so damn much. “Peggy made her own choices,” Steve says. “Damn good ones. Don’t let what happened to her take away from what she did. She was a great woman. And I l—and I’ll miss her.”

Steve comes down from the altar at nearly a jog, nudging Sam with his leg to make him scoot over. As Sharon climbs the stairs, Steve sits heavily by Sam, shaking the pew. His shoulder and leg are pressed right against Sam’s. Sam can feel him trembling. He pulls his hand out of his pocket to rest it on Steve’s knee, just to steady him a little. Slowly, Steve stops shivering. Sam starts to move his hand away—but Steve grabs it and holds on tight.

            Sam’s breath catches. He’s intensely aware of the fact that they’re at a funeral, that Steve’s just finished saying the eulogy for the woman that he by all accounts still loves. The juxtaposition feels wrong somehow. But then so does the juxtaposition of Steve and Riley in Sam’s own heart sometimes. He doesn’t love either of them less. He just loves both of them, Riley’s bright laugh and Steve’s shy smile and dry humor. That love expands to fill his chest and keeps him moving forward when he’s about ready to throw in the towel. Sam never held Riley’s hand, but that doesn’t matter anyway because Steve isn’t Riley. Sam runs his thumb over Steve’s knuckles until Steve slowly starts to relax.  

…

2:44 PM Sam: You okay? You’ve been gone a while

2:50 PM Sam: listen, I don’t know anyone but Tasha and Clint, and they bailed. Can you tell me where you are so I can say sorry to everyone and split?

2:55 PM Steve: tomb of the unknown

2:56 PM Steve: you don’t have to come here I just needed a minute

2:56 PM Steve: to think.

2:57 PM Sam: Okay. I’m taking a walk. I’ll loop around your way.

3:00 PM Steve: Okay.

3:01 PM Steve: Sam?

3:02 PM Sam: Yeah?

3:04 PM Steve: Thank you.

3:04 PM Steve: for everything.


End file.
